by Debra Diaz
EMILY:
THE FARM
I didn’t notice Dad was gone because he is hardly
ever home. He works so much, and lately he’s
been staying away from home sometimes one, sometimes
two nights, that I didn’t even notice he’d been
gone for a week. And no one said a word.
One morning as I am leaving for school I see
Dad’s clothing—his pants, shirts, socks, underwear
—all folded neatly and stacked on our Spanishstyle
red velour sofa.
“Mom?”
She comes out of the kitchen and sees me staring
at the clothes.
“I’m taking those clothes to your Dad today.
He’s in jail.”
“What happened?”
“He got in another crash,” Gloria answers from
the dining room as she fills her mouth with cereal.
“I’m going to see him this weekend. Do you
want to come?” Mom asks.
“Uhm, maybe. . .I have to go now. I’m going to
miss the bus.”
I rush out the door feeling embarrassed and
mad. Why is Dad always doing things like this? I
hope Gloria and Rita don’t tell any of my friends
about this.
With Dad gone, everyone relaxes, even Mom.
We don’t have to be quiet all the time, we can watch
whichever TV show we want, and I can invite my
friends over and not worry about him showing up. I
feel kind of bad about liking that he’s not here. Mom
says he’ll be gone for nine months. That’s a really
long time.
On Sunday morning Tío Vicente and Tía Clara
pick us up and drive us out to a place they call the
county farm. Gloria is excited because Dad wrote
her a letter asking her to sneak in a small jar of
Tres Flores hair pomade for him. She has the jar
with her and is going to toss it into the irrigation
ditch once we get inside. We drive past the entrance,
and it does look like a farm. Tío Vicente slows down.
Gloria leans out and throws the jar into the ditch.
“I hope this doesn’t get us into trouble,” Tía
Clara grumbles. Tía Clara doesn’t like Dad.
“Clara, it’s just pomade,” Mom says. “What can
he do with that little jar?”
“Cut someone’s throat,” she answers.
Mom sighs and stares out at the rows and rows
of small green plants.
Passing the fields, we drive down a long, dusty
road lined with eucalyptus trees. Mom told me
about Dad’s accident earlier, and I can’t stop thinking
or dreaming about it. She said it happened late
at night and Dad had been drinking. He was driving
down Western Boulevard and, as he crossed Laurel
Street, he drifted across the center divider and
crashed head-on into a Volkswagen Bug. Both cars
flipped and Dad’s truck rolled over into a side ditch,
right next to the Drive-In. His side door flew off and
he landed safely in the street. The truck exploded
seconds later. The other driver died instantly. To
keep my mind off the horror, I play a different version
of the accident over and over again in my head.
In my version, Dad escapes from the flames and
saves the other man’s life. Then, from a distance
they both watch as the vehicles explode, sending
metal, glass and shattered beer bottles spraying
across the street.
The men file into the large meeting room filled
with relatives seated at long tables and benches. I
try to think of something to say to him. He wears a
baggy blue cotton jumpsuit and looks thin. I am
afraid of Dad. Afraid he might not like me, that I
might not say or do the right thing to please him.
Mom tells me I am like Dad. That bothers me.
Dad sits across from us. He doesn’t seem sad to
be here. He smiles and hands out presents. For
Mom, he has a leather wallet tooled with beautiful
roses on one side and “Carmen” on the other. My
sisters get belts and I get a small leather coin purse.
Tía Clara is quiet during most of the visit. Tío
Vicente jokes with my Dad and tries to keep everyone
happy, but then Mom starts crying. Gloria, Rita
and I say nothing.
A bell rings and it is time to leave. I am happy
to get out of there. Sometimes I wish I had Martha’s
or even Sharon’s dad.
I later find out that Dad never got his Tres Flores.
A few days before our visit, Gloria had written
him telling him where she was going to throw the
jar, but what she didn’t know was that the guards
read all the letters. Maybe they found the jar or
maybe somebody else picked it up. Either way, Dad
never got it.
(THE RED CAMP is reprinted with permission from the publisher of The Red Camp by Debra Diaz (University of Houston – Arte Público Press, 1996) to buy a copy of THE RED CAMP, go to their website at
http://www.arte.uh.edu/view_book.aspx?isbn=1558851690)